


Trust Yourself

by quietresilience



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietresilience/pseuds/quietresilience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Lydia joins Stiles in Echo House</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Riddled

The noise doesn’t stop. At one in the morning, she lies in her bed, desperate for anything to wash away the memories of her day and the incessant clanging in her head.

She rolls out of bed and makes herself presentable.

Her hands shake as she puts on her mascara. She closes her eyes, wills away her tears. She forces herself to take a long breath and starts again, allowing her usual routine to calm her.

She drives, noting the turns and directions that seem to decrease or at least muffle the noise.

Not surprisingly, she ends up at the hospital. It’s like someone turned down the volume, making the clanging in her head bearable again.

Hours earlier, after the Sherriff and Scott’s reassuring words on Stiles’ condition, she still left with a gnawing in her stomach.

She doesn’t want to wake him. He needs to sleep. If she’s really honest, she just wants to see, with her own eyes, that he’s ok.

She slips past the nurses’ station and into his room.

She lets out a breath, she didn’t realize she’d been holding, at the sight of him sleeping peacefully.

Stepping closer, she sits next to his bed, staring at her friend.

She’s stunned by the silence. Hours of voices and noises filled her head today. But, now, sitting here, she only hears the hospital staff working outside.

He shifts in the bed, blinking open his eyes and smiles when he sees her.

He turns towards her, his voice filled with sleep and exhaustion, “Hey.”

“Hi,” she whispers back, her eyes filled with tears.

He reaches out his hand and she grabs it tightly between hers. She watches as he tries to settle deeper into the small cot. His body fidgets for a moment, before he opens his eyes, fully this time.

She can see the panic on his face, so she leans closer.

“Stiles, you’re ok. You’re at the hospital, but you’re ok.”

He sits up and she can feel his pulse race from her fingers on his wrist.

“Stiles, look at me. Stiles.”

He finally turns towards her and lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

She stands, wrapping her arms around him. He breathes against her neck, stuttered, but after a moment, his arms clutch her small frame, and she feels his breathing slow.

Once his grip loosens, she steps back, keeping her hands on his shoulders as she gives him a warm smile.

“Thanks.” She nods, her hands falling from him as reality sets in their tiny sanctuary. “What time is it?”

“Two.”

“In the morning?” She nods, sitting back on her chair beside his bed. The corners of his mouth turn down as he raises his brows. “Not exactly visiting hours.”

She tilts her head and grimaces as a wave of pain washes over her.

“You ok?” he asks softly.

She presses her lips together tightly as she nods.

“My Dad said you tried to find me.”

Her eyes dart to his, suddenly wide and hesitant. He wears no mask, just exhaustion pooling over his features. There’s no menace or underlying hidden meaning to his words. There never has been. Still surprises her all the same.

“I didn’t help much. In fact, I think I made it worse,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, settling back into his pillows, his knees bent in front of him. “No. My dad told me I was lucky to have such dedicated friends trying to help me.”

She levels an unimpressed glare. “I lead the police to the basement of a mental institution.”

He smiles. “Yea. He said that, too.”

They both snicker as she shakes her head, her cheeks heating at the memory of her conviction over a dream.

“He said he yelled at you. He feels bad. He just—”

“—he was worried about you.”

“He knows you were tryin’ to help. All this supernatural stuff is still new for him.”

She nods and thinks it’s still new for her too.

“Why did you think I was there?”

She winces as she shifts in her seat. “I heard voices. First, in a stereo, then in your room.”

He raises his brows with a small smile. “You were in my room?”

She glares at him. “It’s not funny! I was sure you were there!”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes, enjoying the peace in her mind.

“What did you hear?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t really explain it.”

He bites his lip, his eyes falling to his legs. He knows she’s lying, giving him an easy answer.

She hates feeling vulnerable, but hates the look on his face more.

“I thought I heard you say, ‘please, find me’,” she admits quietly.

She watches as his hands tighten into fists. “Stiles?”

“I thought I was somewhere industrial. I was on the floor and my leg was in one of those traps.”

She reaches forward, covering his fist with her hand. He meets her gaze and smiles as he loosens his grip and holds her hand in his.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” she whispers.


	2. Echo House

Lydia stands outside in the cold, her eyes darting between the three boys and the massive and foreboding building in front of them.

Her arms crossed firmly over her chest, she listens, with growing annoyance, as Stiles convinces his dad and Scott that admitting himself into a mental institution is the right thing to do.

“I’m going with you.”

All three men look at her incredulously.

“No, you’re not,” Stiles replies, “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t know that. None of us know that. We’re just hoping the nogitsune is going to leave you alone in there? Forget it. I’m coming with.”

The Sherriff tries to keep his voice soothing, despite the anxiety evident in his face, “Lydia, I’m sorry, but how would you even help him?”

“I have an I.Q. of 170. If anyone is qualified to help, it’s me.”

Scott tilts his head. “I actually kinda like the idea.”

Stiles turns to his friend. “What? No. It’s a terrible idea.”

He shrugs. “I’d feel better knowing someone’s looking out for you in there.”

“Your parents aren’t even here, Lydia,” the Sherriff gently reminds her.

She shrugs, stepping towards the gates. “You only need your parents if you’re voluntarily checking yourself in.”

Stiles’ eyes widen and he steps towards her. “Lydia, don’t do this. You don’t need to do this—”

She screams, long and shrill. To be honest, once she finishes, she feels settled and more confident in her decision to stick with Stiles.

Two orderlies run out as expected.

“Ma’am, are you ok?”

She shakes her head, tears bubbling down her cheeks. “I can’t stop the voices! They’re in the lights, in my stereo! They won’t stop.” She steps forwards, falling into the taller orderly. “I’m terrified all the time! Werewolves, foxes, demons—it won’t stop!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and steps forward to interrupt, but Scott stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

While Lydia sobs into the orderly’s chest, the other man asks them, “Is she with you?”

Stiles face falls as he sighs heavily, “Yes. She’s with us.”

“Are you checking her in?”

“No. I’m checking in, but—yes she needs help, too, obviously.”

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he follows them inside.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, he searches for her frantically, his roommate buzzing in his ear and keeping up with his long strides.

He finally finds her, hunched over a bench.

His hands grip her shoulders as he turns her towards him. “Are you ok?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “They sedated me last night. Can you believe that?”

He lets out a small breath of relief as his hands slide down her arms. “Yea. I can believe that. You were crying like a maniac.”

She turns slightly, eying his roommate suspiciously.

“Oliver, meet Lydia. Lydia, Oliver. He ate a bug.”

She raises her brows as she turns her attention back to him, even as Oliver talks in the background.

“Guess who my roommate is?” He shakes his head, shrugging. “Malia.” His head pivots as he searches the courtyard. “Oh, don’t bother. She likes to hide. Just this morning, she hid all my clothes. The orderlies thought I made it up, so they’re making me wear this.”

She pulls at the starchy blue jumpsuit, her face contorted in disgust.

He smiles at her affectionately. Covering her hand with his, he says quietly, “Well, I think you look adorable.”

She shakes her head, grimacing at the movement. “How can a place not have coffee?”

“How can a place not have phones? Do you think Malia has a phone?”

“Why?”

“I need to call Scott. I think I saw the nogitsune last night. A guy killed himself on the stairs.”

She shudders, shifting closer to him and squeezing his hand.

She searches the area for any semblance of contact to the outside world.

“There’s Malia. I doubt she’s capable of human interaction, but you’re welcome to try.”

Stiles stands, crossing the small courtyard towards the young girl.

Lydia watches as her roommate punches him squarely in the jaw.

She tilts her head. “Shoulda expected that.”

The staff quickly swarm through the crowd, holding Stiles on the ground. Her heart jumps in her throat as she watches Stiles thrash against them. She steps forward, her cobwebbed mind finally waking up.

Suddenly, their old counselor appears. The orderlies let Stiles go and he quickly stands to his feet.

He pants, leaving heavily against Lydia as Morell informs them of their group therapy session.

Lydia licks her lips, her arms wound around his waist.

He leans down, whispering, “I’ve seen that place.”

“What place?”

He points to the ground, where a piece of plexi glass covers several small holes. Lydia bends down and peers into the darkness.

She stands slowly, her hands shaking slightly. “Stiles, that’s the basement.”

“So?” he asks breathlessly.

“That’s where I thought you were. That’s where I led your dad.”

He reaches for her, steadying her. “We gotta get in there.”

She nods, replying quietly, “I think I remember how to get in.”

 

* * *

 

 

As they sit through their group therapy session, Lydia watches Stiles bite his nails, his legs jumping. His whole body seems to be humming.

His eyes dart to the back of the room, and she watches as he tracks the air, his pupils dilating.

No one else in the group, including her, can see what he so obviously sees. Lydia knows better than most just how terrifying and alienating that feels.

“Lydia, you seem rather intent on Mr. Stilinski. Why don’t you share with us your feelings of guilt?”

Her head spins towards the counselor. “No, thanks.”

“Are there things you want to apologize for? Things you feel like you need to make up for?”

Her eyes narrow, as she replies tersely, “I don’t find guilt a very helpful emotion.”

“On the contrary, it keep us grounded. It reminds us that we are all connected. That we are all human.”

She sighs, nearly glaring. “Guilt is not what keeps us connected, Ms. Morell. Empathy is.”

The older woman smiles. “Very good answer.”


	3. Warm Me Up

They step down to the floor of the basement.

“I was here,” he whispers, “In my dream that night.”

Lydia raises her head, watching him with sad eyes.

Stiles steps towards the back wall. “It has something to do with this.”

She reaches out, tracing the Japanese symbol.

As if burnt, she pulls back her hand, her eyes wide as she steps back.

Stiles reaches for her. “What? Did you hear something?”

“There’s someone behind the wall,” she whispers.

His entire body starts. He searches the basement and finds a crowbar.

She watches as he swings it, hitting the wall and cracking the plaster.

Two more swings and the hole widens enough for them to peer inside.

“What is that?”

He ducks his head, licking his lips, as he replies quietly, “That’s the nogitsune.”

She watches as he reaches inside, his fingers nimbly searching his pockets. He hands her a folded paper. She opens it and grabs his arm, stopping his search.

His brows furrow as he stares at the picture. “Kira?”

She shakes her head. “It can’t be. The dress, the uniform, the vehicle, that’s all from World War II.”

He tilts his head. “Well, I guess we know who we need to talk to when we get out of here.”

She nods and pockets the picture.

He finishes his search and stands to his full height. “Nothin’ else on him.”

She nods, glancing around the darkened basement. She reaches for him and he holds her hand.

“Just your average night of research, right?” She doesn’t respond, continuing to stare at the boxes and pipes filling the small space. “You can go back. You don’t have to—”

Raising her head, her brows furrow as she glares at him.

He nods. “Right.”

Stepping forward, he leads them towards a couch in the back of the room. She sits on the edge as he drags a box of files from the corner.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, she throws the last file back into the box.

“This is by far, the worst night I’ve spent with you, and I’m including the time you took me to a dance and Peter Hale bit me.”

He laughs beside her, his hands still full of papers.

As they read, they slid closer together, both from the cold and the dark material.

“Don’t forget the time I accused you of drugging us at the motel from hell.”

She shudders and props her feet beneath his legs. “I hated that place.”

He raises his brows. “Worse than here?”

She nods, her eyes wide and sincere. He chuckles as she threads her arm through his.

When her fingers grip his arm, he jumps. “Damn it, Lydia! You’re freezing!”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

He turns towards her and her feet slip further beneath his legs, till his pajama clad thigh brushes her knees.

She shivers and her heart rate accelerates.

He holds her hands between his. He rubs them softly. Ducking his head, he blows, his warm breath heating her hands and pooling low in her stomach.

She stares, mesmerized by his movements.

He lifts his head and his brows furrow as he catches her expression.

Squeezing her hands, he asks quietly, “Better?”

She leans forward, her chest hitting her bent knees, and she kisses him.

His lips are chapped and rough, and, unlike last time, he responds instantly.

She pulls away and keeps her eyes closed, struggling to keep the small moment.

She opens her eyes to find him watching her carefully.

Neither speaks as they stare at each other, wonder and hesitation in their expressions, her hands still in his.

“I’m terrified I’m gonna wake up.”

“Would that be so bad?” she replies with a small smile, “You are in a mental institution.”

She shifts, sliding her feet over his thigh, then under his left leg.

One hand slips from hers, as he gently slides his hand over the thin cotton covering her legs.

Raising his head, he meets her gaze. “It’s not the first time I’ve dreamt of you.”

“I’m more than some teenage dream.”

His lips turn up as his hand threads through her hair. “Infinitely better.”

He leans forward and she closes her eyes.

Her hands hesitate, frozen in place, at the feel of his lips against hers. He cants his head, his hand sliding up her thigh and gripping her waist.

She reaches for him, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt. She pulls him towards her as she leans back.

With a grin, she whispers, “Warm me up, Stilinski.”

His eyes never leave her as he follows her, his hands on either side of her shoulders as she slides beneath him. She tangles their legs, pulling on his shoulders till he drops to his elbows. His larger frame nearly engulfs her. She smiles at the feel of his hard lines fitting like a puzzle against her.

He winds a piece of hair around his finger as he stares at her. He bites his bottom lip, a light blush coloring his cheeks. It gives a healthy, vital glow against the dark, haunted circles under his eyes.

Wanting to see more of that, she raises her head, swiping her lips against his.

He shudders, then ducks his head. His breath warms her neck before his lips kiss her skin.

She smiles, shifting restlessly beneath him. Her foot brushes the back of his calf, and his hips fall into the open space between her legs.

He presses himself into her and bites her neck playfully. She gasps, arching into him. His tongue soothes the spot.

His hand smooths up her side, his thumb brushing her breast, before sliding over her arm. He interlaces their fingers, bringing their hands over her head.

He raises his head, kissing her, his movements smooth and sure. His tongue swipes at her bottom lip and she opens her mouth.

She bends her knee, her heel hitting the small of his back. She lifts her hips as he rubs and shifts against her. He catches her gasps and murmurs, repeating fleeting touches to elicit similar responses.

Suddenly overheated, she guides their still joined hands down the couch. Arching her back, she slips their hands beneath her.

He takes her subtle direction, never breaking his rhythm as he wraps his arm around her tiny frame, holding her to him even as he presses her into the couch.

She moans, one hand tightening around his shoulders, as the other combs through his hair, her nails scraping his scalp.

He groans and his entire body stutters against her.

She smiles, repeating the action as she raises her head, pressing her lips to a spot just behind his ear.

“Jesus, Lydia,” he breathes, lifting his head to meet her gaze.

She smiles at the sight: his lips swollen, his pupils blown, his hair mussed, and his cheeks and neck now bright red.

She bites her bottom lip as she traces his hairline, her finger moving over his ear and down his jaw.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers.

He nods, swallowing roughly. His voice is hoarse as he replies, “Sleep deprivation heightens your sensory input.”

He rolls to his side, his arm still wound around her. She turns with him, her entire body still lined with his. Her toes hit the back of the couch. Her fingers trace his chest through the thin material of his t-shirt.

His hand slides up and down her back as he watches her intently. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to her forehead. Her hands stills and she closes her eyes, breathing him in.

Something scrapes against the ground and they both jump as Oliver suddenly appears.   
“Jesus, Oliver! How did you get down here?” Stiles yells as they both struggle to sit up on the couch.

He points towards the back. “There’s another entrance.”

“Why are you here, Oliver?”

“They’re doin’ bed checks. You gotta get back.”

Their eyes widen as they both stand.

Stiles turns to push back the box full of messed papers, and he hears a noise behind him.

Turning back, he watches Lydia fall to the ground. He immediately steps forward, reaching for her, as his brain registers too late the taser in Oliver’s hand. Oliver reaches out and electrocutes him.

“I stole this from an orderly. Along with some Haldol.”

Stiles groans, trying and failing to reach for Lydia as Oliver plunges a needle in her arm.

 

* * *

 

 

Her brain is still addled with the effects of the sedative, so it takes several tries for her to piece together what happened.

She sees Oliver on the floor and watches as Stiles leads them back up the stairs to their rooms.

They stop at her door and he smiles at her before walking down the hall.

“I heard you like riddles,” she calls out.

The nogitsune pivots smoothly on his heel. He tilts his head with a dangerous smirk.

“What gave it away?”

Lydia shrugs, attempting to look unimpressed. “Everything.”

His lips turn down as he steps closer. “Fooled his dad, his best friend—”

“—not me.”

He smiles, stopping a few feet from her. “No. Not you. Not yet.” He leans forward, ducking his head. “You know, he really cares about you. It’s a wonder, given the way you treat him.”

She gives him a smile, long ago reserved for Jackson. “See, I just expected more from the trickster, the guy responsible for chaos, pain and strife.” His face hardens and she sees her opportunity. “No sooner spoken than broken. What am I?”

His lips turn up in a slow smile. “A secret. You think you know mine?”

“We’re close, right? Stiles is getting closer every day? He’s stronger than you thought.”

He steps towards her, but she falls back into the open door of her room, attempting to shut it behind her.

He’s too quick and pulls against the metal and wood.

She cries out, trying to hold him back. Malia suddenly appears beside her and the door slams shut, leaving the nogitsune yelling and glaring through the glass.

He laughs, shaking his head and walking away, his voice echoing in the empty hallway.

“We’ll see each other again, Lydia. Sooner than you’d like, I expect.”

She turns, still shaking, and thanks her roommate.

Malia raises her brows. “Some boyfriend.”

She shakes her head. “He’s not—”

Lydia licks her lips, willing away her unshed tears. Crossing the room, she sits on her bed, pressing her fingers into the mattress.

“Are you ok?”

“You can leave anytime, right?”

“I don’t want to. Just like I didn’t want to be human, but you guys already took that choice from me, so—”

“What if I told you I know someone who could teach you how to turn back into a coyote?”

“I’m listening.”

Taking the picture out of her pocket, Lydia hands it to the girl. “You just need to give them this. And you need to do it tomorrow. Tell them the nogitsune is back.”

Malia raises her brows, her gaze darting from Lydia to the picture. “Ok. I’m assuming that will mean something to them.”

Lydia nods, lying down on her bed and covering her shivering body with a blanket.

“Scott. You need to find Scott McCall.”


End file.
